Whilst browsing Amazon earlier today, I saw a book entitled, “The Seven Qualities Men Find Irresistible in a Woman,” and the first thought that popped into my head was, “Oh! I hope all seven of them are not giving a shit what men find irresistible!”
I don’t know if I’m growing cynical or just lesbian – I know, that was redundant – but I’m having a really hard time getting it up for men these days.
I went out with a model last week. A 27-year-old model, for Chrissakes. He was so Austinesquely perfect, with his precisely trimmed beard, the soft camel-colored corduroy coat, the hem of his jeans perfectly turned up . . . Do men buy their jeans extra long so they can do that?
Anyway, he was so perfectly outfitted and so earnest as he gazed at me over sushi, describing – I am not kidding about this – how he rescues puppies in his spare time. And all I wanted to say was, “For fuck’s sake, grow a fucking edge. Go do something evil, come tell me about it while taking a long drag from a cigarette in a place that doesn’t allow smoking, and then maybe we can talk.”
He invited me over to his place tonight for cocktails, but I turned him down so I could stay home, organize my craft supplies and have a fight with my daughter. The fight wasn’t planned, just a little extra sizzle in dat spontaneous single life.
Seriously, Monday nights are MINE. I schedule myself into my own calendar.
I don’t *think* it’s my night job causing my current man malaise. It’s not like I think all men are horrible now. I mean, I am fully aware that the strip club attracts a certain slice of men who aren’t at all representational of the whole. However, I can’t put my finger on what’s causing this odd bout of boy crazy deprivation. Oh, boy, I do love alliteration. And rhyming!
(My apologies to the men – and women – trying to get through and keep getting a busy signal. You are cute and sweet, and this isn’t your fault; your timing just sucks.)
But if it isn’t my job causing my current lack of excitement in the gender that normally excites me, what is it? It’s not that lack of sleep is killing my libido. I still want dick; I just don’t want it attached to anything. And apparently, disembodied dick is just . . . creepy. Or so I’m told. And not a thing anyhow, particularly if one isn’t into fake ones that vibrate. No, men, I like ’em real, which, in hindsight, is somewhat hypocritical coming from a woman hauling around way more silicone than even a Greek demigod who’s part man, part Sybian could provide.
Now THERE’S an image.
Perhaps it’s just that there’s nothing like sex work to make sex feel like . . . work. I’ve gotten so to used to being ON all the time, to not only being full-time seductress, but also therapist, comedian and masseuse (oh, yes, I give the mammary massages now, Gordon!) that dating feels like an extension of work.
I just figured it out. There it is. Dating and relating is too similar to my actual job for me to get all worked up about it! Geez, I’ll say it again: who needs a therapist when I’ve got Y’ALL?
I am okay with this startling revelation, y’all. Because I’m discovering that when you stop looking for The One, you find yourself among The Many.
And you can put that in your pipe of great relationship quotes and smoke the hell out of it
Preferably in a place that doesn’t allow smoking, and then maybe we can talk.